


Dower

by SleepsWithCoyotes



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Family, Gen, archive fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:55:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25206589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepsWithCoyotes/pseuds/SleepsWithCoyotes
Summary: Marchioness Midford considers the woman her nephew will marry.
Relationships: Frances Midford & Ciel Phantomhive, Frances Midford & Elizabeth Midford
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	Dower

**Author's Note:**

> Back to working on moving stuff over from the spambot...this one's from 2009, before Elizabeth turned out to be a complete badass. *hearteyes*

Her correspondence she'd answer later, from the sturdy desk in the study that had once belonged to the Marquis, penning swift replies in a bold, rushing hand and firing missives off like orders to her troops. The reading itself was a more leisurely affair, a luxury of time she allowed herself over the breakfast table, sandwiched neatly between the morning paper and informing her steward of his duties for the day. Much of it was tedious: invitations to balls, to meaningless events, the vapid gossip of the idle. The ones to which she looked forward arrived in unscented envelopes addressed in masculine hands: invitations to ride at the hunt, word of a fencing demonstration at the Austrian Embassy, the hope for her participation at a shooting party to be held on a private estate. She'd outride and outshoot them all, of course, but that was only to be expected.

She took a sip of tea as she set aside a rambling letter from Lady Carlisle, rendered nearly illegible by the featherheaded woman's swooping cursive curls and ornamentations. Deciphering the little ninny's handwriting was enough to give anyone a headache, and she nearly set the rest of the mail aside to be dealt with later.

Cup poised at her lips, she paused as she saw the crest on the envelope beneath. Well, now. That was more like it. She'd been expecting this one for days.

"You're late," she murmured as cup met saucer with a crisp tap, impatiently breaking the seal and pulling out a single sheet of fine parchment.

' _Esteemed Aunt_ ,' it began with suspect formality, and she narrowed her eyes in irritation. Well, he _should_ be wary of her after the trick he'd pulled; a little courtesy wasn't a bad beginning.

' _I must apologize sincerely for the lateness of the hour on my last visit to your home. Please believe that neither I nor my servants had any intention of disturbing your evening, and that I received with great pleasure the news that Elizabeth was able to sleep through our arrival, untimely though it was. In addition, I must respectfully thank you for the loan of certain items, which I trust have been returned to you in good order. Though it pains me to impose upon the bonds of blood, without your assistance, I should have been entirely at a loss_.

' _I remain_ ,  
_Your Loving Nephew_ ,  
_Ciel, Earl of Phantomhive_ '

She sat for a long moment, fighting the sorest temptation to stuff that damnable letter back into its envelope and ride directly to her nephew's estate to throw it back in his face. Instead she let a quiet snort of laughter escape, the hard press of her lips curving into a small, tight smile. It was unquestionably Ciel's hand, and though she would have liked to blame at least part of it on that indecent butler of his, the tone was all Ciel's as well.

'Loan of certain items,' indeed. Broken into the manor in the dead of night, the boy had, and while that butler of his had smilingly sent her own servants back to their beds, her nephew had led his trio of incompetents right to the trophy room and walked away with rifles and cartridges enough to fight a small war. Which, by all accounts, they had done, if one looked a little deeper into the news of two criminal gangs slaughtering each other near the docks that same night.

That boy. He'd sent his _servants_ to do the work, and though she had no doubt that the routing of two rival organizations had been the easier part--the surface job always was, and there was always more than met the eye when the Phantomhive was involved--it still rankled.

He could have had her assistance for the asking. Instead he'd relied on _them_.

Bright peals of laughter drew her eyes from the letter, and she looked up as her daughter swept into the room in a swirl of lace and bows, her silly little maid close on her heels. "Mother, look! Do you think Ciel will like it?"

The girl was dressed in blue today, Phantomhive blue, beaming expectantly as she turned a slow circle to be admired. It was a fair color for her, Frances supposed, though it did nothing for her eyes.

Flicking a critical glance over her daughter, Frances frowned. Would Ciel like it? Foolish question. Elizabeth was everything a young noblewoman should be: beautiful, elegant, charming and cheerful, the perfect ornament to any nobleman's arm, the jewel of his household. She could welcome his guests, flatter his allies, distract his enemies. She was exactly what any wife should be. Just ask her fool of an uncle.

Two sisters, and which one had Vincent married? The pretty, delicate one, not the spitfire, the _surgeon_ , the one who might, God help them, have fought and fought well for her husband's life.

Ciel could have asked for his aunt's assistance. But if anything had happened to her, who would have taken care of Lizzie?

"Mother?"

"It's very nice, Elizabeth," she said, gathering her correspondence and tying it up with the ribbon it'd been presented in. "But I'm afraid you won't have time to show it off today."

The girl looked surprised but not belligerent. Of course. Her daughter's manners were impeccable.

"Paula," Frances rapped out, smiling faintly as the little maid jerked to attention before dropping into a curtsey. "Tell Elizabeth's tutors they won't be needed today. No--for the rest of the week. We'll work out a new schedule for her after that."

"Yes, my Lady," Paula replied, scurrying away with only a brief glance at her mistress.

"Mother?" Elizabeth asked again, eyes lit up already in cautious excitement at the prospect of a week free of lessons. Little did she know.

"You're nearly sixteen," Frances replied. "You may even be married within the year."

Elizabeth blushed, very becomingly, until Frances stared her pale again.

They could begin with marksmanship. She'd been patient with her daughter's pretenses, playing at being a hothouse flower who'd wilt away from her husband's sheltering arm. Keeping her fencing lessons to odd hours when no one was likely to visit, hiding her swords and the pistols specially commissioned for her where no one else would see. And for what? Her future husband's comfort?

Too much like his father, that boy was, seeing a wife as something to protect. But no nephew of hers was going to die because his wife couldn't defend him, not while she had anything to say about it.

"When you marry," she said firmly as Elizabeth fidgeted wide-eyed before her, "you will be a Phantomhive. It's time you learned what that means."

She would train as Frances herself had trained, and one day her foolish nephew would thank her for it.


End file.
